Tver studied the proprietor with a thoughtful expression.
Tall and thin, his long hair and beard were streaked with gray, and his sapphire eyes held a distant, detached look. Had he not known the story, Tver would never have connected him to Headmaster Dumbledore.
Yes, this was Dumbledore's own brother—Aberforth Dumbledore.
The elder brother was the famed Headmaster of Hogwarts, the greatest white wizard of his time. The younger brother, on the other hand, ran a shabby little pub in a small village.
Apparently, Tver had been staring a bit too long, which irritated the barkeep. Aberforth repeated himself impatiently.
"Customer, what will it be? Butterbeer or Firewhiskey? Or are you planning to stay the night?"
"Just a bottle of Butterbeer, please."
Tver cheerfully found an empty table, one that was neither too close nor too far from Quirrell.
Quirrell had also ordered a Butterbeer and was sipping it quietly by himself. Compared to other pubs, this place was rather calm—aside from Hagrid, who was playing cards and chatting about magical creatures, making quite a racket.
However, when Tver saw the bottle of Butterbeer brought to him, his desire to take even a sip disappeared at once. The grime on it was greasier than Professor Snape's hair and more nauseating than Quirrell's garlic stench.
It had to be Aberforth's doing—a petty revenge for Tver's earlier impoliteness.
Those two brothers really did grow more childish with age.
Tver gave a faint shake of his head. As for this beer? Best to leave it alone.
Sitting quietly, Tver didn't bother to watch Quirrell's movements. Instead, he, like Quirrell, listened in on the nearby conversations.
"They say Gringotts was broken into by some mysterious figure who managed to escape afterward."
"You're behind on the news. That 'mysterious person' cleaned out the entire Gringotts vault. The goblins are losing their minds trying to make up the losses."
"I say Gringotts staged the whole thing themselves—swallowed the clients' deposits and claimed it was a robbery!"
Tver's face, hidden beneath his hood, twitched slightly.
What exactly was I expecting?
Quirrell seemed to feel the same. His shoulders drooped, and he looked restless, his hand tapping on the table as if ready to get up.
Then Hagrid suddenly spoke, and Quirrell froze mid-motion.
"You've never seen a Three-Headed Dog, have you? I raised one for a year—started out this small," he gestured with his palm, "and it grew as tall as the ceiling! The only trouble is, the three heads keep fighting each other."
With just that one sentence, Quirrell sat back down and listened intently to Hagrid's chatter. But Hagrid only mentioned the Three-Headed Dog in passing. The rest of his talk turned to his love for dragons, which left Quirrell visibly disappointed.
Still, it told Tver what Quirrell was after tonight.
So he was still fixated on the Three-Headed Dog.
A faint smile curved Tver's lips. Picking up his untouched Butterbeer, he quietly moved to sit beside Hagrid.
The action went unnoticed—people were constantly coming and going around Hagrid's table, watching the card game.
After sitting down, Tver watched for a while, then suddenly spoke.
"I've got a Three-Headed Dog myself—a big one. They're wild and hard to tame. I've no idea how you managed it. If I didn't know their weakness, they'd have bitten me to death by now."
With that, Hagrid's spirits lifted. Few people were willing to chat with him about magical creatures, especially since his views on them were rather unorthodox.
"That's simple. Three-Headed Dogs like cooked meat, though they won't turn down raw either. Just feed them raw meat most of the time, then give them cooked meat during training. They'll obey your commands without fuss."
Hagrid went on enthusiastically, but Tver stopped listening. He only needed to know one thing—
The bait had been taken.
Ever since he'd mentioned the Three-Headed Dog, he'd felt a subtle gaze fixed on him.
There was no need to guess. The only one who would have kept watching him that long was Quirrell.
After thanking Hagrid, Tver quickly left the pub, pretending to be an excited wizard eager to get home and try out a new training method on his Three-Headed Dog.
Once outside, however, his steps slowed. He strolled down the quiet street toward the edge of the village.
Quirrell was surprisingly patient. He followed at a distance, never moving ahead, unconcerned that Tver might Apparate away at any moment.
When they reached the village entrance, Tver's patience ran out. He made a deliberately clumsy Apparition gesture.
Sure enough, Quirrell hurried out from the shadows.
"Friend, don't leave just yet," he said, his tone overly cheerful, clearly trying to sound friendly. "Can we talk for a moment?"
"Who are you?" Tver feigned surprise, taking a few steps back. "I'm in a hurry to get home. No time to chat."
"No rush, my friend." Quirrell pulled out a small pouch that jingled softly. "Just answer one little question, and these twenty Galleons are yours. Easy money."
Tver couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh.
He bribed Hagrid with a dragon egg, and now it's down to twenty Galleons for me?
Not that Tver had any intention of giving him real information anyway.
Pretending to be tempted by the offer, he paused before replying, "What do you want to know? If it's too difficult, I can't promise I'll have the answer."
"It's simple," Quirrell said, shaking the pouch invitingly. "Just tell me the weakness of the Three-Headed Dog."
Tver folded his arms and gave him a teasing look. "That's not such a simple question, is it? You've been sitting in that pub all night and still haven't found the answer."
Quirrell's face twisted with anger—Tver's tone made it clear he was being toyed with.
"Don't get cocky! I'll just ask that big oaf instead!" he snapped through gritted teeth.
"Go ahead then," Tver said with a casual wave. "I'll be back next week. Come find me if you still haven't gotten your answer."
Before Quirrell could say a word, Tver vanished in an instant—no trace left of his earlier clumsy act.
Quirrell immediately realized he'd been played.
That fearful, hesitant act earlier—it had all been deliberate, a trick to make him lower his guard.
"You were careless," a cold, echoing voice hissed from beneath Quirrell's hood.
Quirrell clasped his hands before his chest and said respectfully, "My Lord, it's my fault. That man isn't what he seems."
"I mean, from the very start in the pub—you were already being watched!"
Voldemort's voice grew sharp and venomous, making Quirrell tremble.
"I... I don't understand what you mean, my Lord."
"That man had his eyes on you the moment he entered the pub, tracking your every move, you fool!"
Voldemort's fury burned hotter, for he had only just realized it himself.
He, the great Dark Lord, had been deceived by some cunning, hidden wizard!
"Next week, you'll go back," Voldemort commanded coldly. "Tear that man's soul apart—let me see what truly hides inside him."